Misgivings
by Ithilmir
Summary: Javert thinks about his past. Plotless one shot. T for one word that escaped my attention.


**A/N:** I don't know where this came from; it just walked into my head a couple of hours ago and politely requested to be written. Well, as it did say 'please'… Also vaguely a testament to how memory plays tricks on us in our old age. R&R s'il vous plait – it's nice to know people are alive.

* * *

Paris – December, 1824

M. Chabouillet's house on the rue Petit-Marceau was well known to its neighbours as a house of cheer. The Secretary to the Prefect of Police often invited friends and business associates to small intimate gatherings – no expense spared on fine wine or good food – and Mme. Chabouillet was a famed hostess; always ready with a witty remark, never letting the conversation slack, always eager to engage the most melancholy or cynical of guests in small talk with a charm that was all her own.

Tonight was such an occasion. It was mid December and the snow was already falling. Out in the streets the workers, grisettes and gamins winced at the signs of the harsh winter to come; inside by their fires the bourgeois gazed out at the drifting goose-feather flakes and commented on the wonders of nature. In the house on the rue Petit-Marceau the guests of this evening's gathering, eight in all, had adjourned from the dinner table into the salon where each was served with a glass of port; a wine M. Chabouillet was particularly fond of. It was at this point as the host was observing the snowflakes swirling outside the window that one of the guests made the following remark;

"God, it must be hell out there!"

M. Chabouillet turned. It was the Major who had spoken; an old, but robust gentleman of around sixty who sported a large white moustache. He was looking distinctly flushed and a little bit on the other side of tipsy.

"I beg your pardon, major?" asked M. Chabouillet, startled by this sudden statement.

"What I said, monsieur," replied the Major, swaying gently. "Snow, ice and wind; hell all the way, I tell you!"

"Oh, surely not, major!" said one of the women. "I fail to see how such a beautiful thing as snow could be unpleasant."

"No, madame, I can assure you," said the Major. "Nothing worse than ice and sleet when you're on the battlefield! Gets into your powder, locks up your musket, slips into your boots and freezes your toes off! No, madame, nothing worse than snow!"

"Much as this is a fascinating subject and we'd all be _dying_ to hear your reminisces, major," said Mme. Chabouillet briskly. "I fear it may not be fitting for a social evening." She sat up brightly, perched on the edge of the couch, addressing the rest of the guests. "How about a game to cheer things up?"

"Now there's an idea!" cried M. Chabouillet, relieved that the Major had, for once, been cut off in his prime. "What a clever thing to think of, my dear."

"Indeed, I think a game would be wonderful," repeated Mme. Chabouillet. "Don't you think so, M. Javert?"

The large figure that had been sitting hunched up in an armchair by the fire started slightly at having been addressed. Out of all the guests the Inspector had been the only one to remain resolutely silent throughout the evening. _Most lacking in social skills,_ Mme. Chabouillet had observed; but then that was to be expected, having come from the provinces. He was very new to Paris, and it was not unusual for M. Chabouillet to invite lower-ranking police officers that had come to his personal attention to dinner sometimes. But even so, the man had the look of a barbarian, and was rumoured to be a gypsy, to boot.

Meanwhile, M. Javert seemed to be slightly at a loss as how to reply.

"Um, I'm afraid that I'm, er, not familiar with the practice of… games, madame," he said uncertainly.

"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed another one of the women. "Everyone knows a game or two! I reckon we should play… _Passé Passé_!"

"No, no! Far too simple!" cried a middle-aged gentleman. "How about _Blind Man's Bluff_? Of course, we'd have to have a decent forfeit, especially for the ladies…"

He shot a smile at the lady who had favoured _Passé Passé_. She immediately turned away and started fanning herself in disgust.

"How about a card game?" another suggested, taking a pack of cards from inside his jacket. "We could play _Vingt-et-Un_!"

"Or," laughed one of the younger ladies. "We could try a bit of fortune telling!"

"Oh, do let's!" exclaimed another, a girl whose name was Celestine, clapping her hands together in amusement. She took the pack of cards the gentleman had presented and shuffled them clumsily, extracting a card and looking at it. She then turned to her companion and frowned.

"Oh Eloïse," she said, face dead-pan. "You're going to have six husbands!"

This brought a burst of good-humoured laughter from the assembled company. Celestine drew another card.

"And Delphine," she said, turning to the _Passé Passé_ girl. "You're going to get married to a bald ugly man over seventy!"

Again more laughter. M. Chabouillet shook his head.

"Women!" he exclaimed. "The things you come up with! I don't think in all reality we could, mademoiselle; I doubt anybody here would know how to read cards properly!"

There was another wave of laughter from the guests, which died down almost immediately at the sly look in Celestine's eyes. She turned to the armchair by the fire and proffered the cards to Javert.

"Monsieur Javert, if you would do us the honour?"

Javert looked up in amazement. He glanced at the cards momentarily, then back to the smiling face of Celestine and M. Chabouillet swore he felt the room temperature drop a few degrees. Silently he cursed himself for being so short-sighted, and prayed that Javert had a lot more social grace than he would usually give him credit for.

"Ma'amselle?" Javert queried.

"I've heard rumours, M. Javert," said Celestine smoothly. "Tell us; are they true? Are you _really_ a gypsy?"

There was a distinct stir of murmuring from the company. The look that formed on Javert's face coloured Mme. Chabouillet's cheeks and spurred her into action.

"Celestine, I don't think that is any question to be asking M. Javert–"

"Are you?" asked the one called Eloïse excitedly. "Is it true?"

"How extraordinary!" exclaimed Delphine. "Oh monsieur, can you really tell fortunes?"

"Of course he can, silly; All gypsies can tell fortunes! Can't they, monsieur?"

Javert continued to stare blankly at the cards.

"You are mistaken in your assumptions, ma'amselle," he said levelly. "And if this is what is called 'games' then I am most definitely not familiar with it."

"Oh come now, Inspector," laughed Celestine, the malicious glint still in her eyes. "Surely all gypsies can tell fortunes?"

"Come sir!" roared the Major, spilling most the contents of his glass. "A clue? A hint from your infinite wisdom?"

The Inspector frowned, his eyes two pin points of darkness glowing in the firelight. After having fixed the Major with this smouldering stare for some time, the deep baritone of his voice broke the silence.

"It appears I have outstayed my welcome," he rumbled. "Goodnight messieurs, mesdames. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening."

And with that he rose from his chair, gave a small nod of his head to Mme. Chabouillet – who had got up, in vain, to try and smooth things over – and left the room, closing the door behind him. The other guests exchanged quizzical and confused glances, Mme. Chabouillet shooting a furious look at Celestine. M. Chabouillet sighed deeply and rang the bell for the maid to fetch another bottle of port. The Major shrugged his shoulders and took another sip from his glass.

"Odd fellow."

---------

Making his way through the driving snow, the collar of his greatcoat pulled up high, chin tucked firmly into his cravat, head bowed low against the elements, Javert fumed silently. He should never have gone; he'd known it was a bad idea from the start, but M. Chabouillet had insisted. Shortly after arriving he had recalled why exactly he hated parties so much, and this evening's 'games' had not served to change his opinion in any way, shape or form.

_Is it true you are a gypsy, monsieur? How extraordinary! Can you tell fortunes? All gypsies can tell fortunes!_ Always the mentality; always the way. It very rarely happened anymore; the more time he had spent in the North the paler his skin had become – he hadn't been that dark to start with, either. Most people hardly ever asked now, or noticed come to think of that; but when they did it always led to the same question; _'Can you tell fortunes, monsieur?'_

It was not that he was ashamed, he merely hated the way people reacted; _'Oh look, a gypsy! Let's play with him!_' Was it his fault? It's not as if he had a say in who his parents were; I mean, who does?

He sighed as he walked along the backstreets; negotiating his way through the biting wind, endeavouring to navigate whilst the snow stung his eyes and accumulated on his lashes, trying not to bump into people coming the other way or trip over the odd body lying in the gutter that may or may not already be dead from the cold. Finally he turned the corner into the street where he kept his rooms, arriving at the front door of the tenement and letting himself in. Closing the door firmly behind him he removed his hat and shook himself like a wet dog, depositing bits of snow and slush in a puddle around his feet. The house was silent; everyone else must be in bed. _And who can blame them on a night like this? _Javert thought to himself.

Having taken a minute to regain the feeling in his extremities he began the ascent to the third floor.

The apartment was warm as he'd set a fire going before he'd left. At least that was a blessing. Hanging his damp coat, hat and scarf in their place behind the door, Javert sat down in the chair at the table and heaved a great sigh. The events of tonight's party returned to his mind almost immediately. _All gypsies can tell fortunes…_ Rubbish. Absolute bullshit. Fortunes; what were fortunes? His mother used to read fortunes, usually all resulting in the inquirer (more than likely to be a curious country girl) being told they'd certainly meet a tall, handsome man or marry a prince. There was nothing in it, she'd told him; just stories to keep the clients happy and the customers paying.

He stood up and walked over to the mantelpiece, stretched up his arm and took down his mother's pack of cards. He didn't know why he kept them up there, only it was where she'd kept them; always in reach, always at the centre of her housework. _All gypsies can tell fortunes…_Could he? He had never tried, never seen the point of it. Maybe he had pretended to once or twice as a child, but that was just a game. Games.

He sat back down at the table and pulled a few cards at random, laying them one by one on the table. The King of Swords, the Ace of Swords, the Eight of Coins, the Devil, Justice… What were they but pictures? Pretty pictures that told him nothing. What his mother had made of them he'd never know; she had not lasted long enough to teach him.

He turned to stare at his palm. _All gypsies can tell fortunes…_What could be determined by the lines of his hands? He did not see Love or Intellect, Betrayal or Life; he saw large, rough hands calloused from years of toil – from the handling of the lash and chains. Ink-stained nails and fingers that had written countless reports, signed how many yellow passports and payslips, had sealed however many documents. His hands only told him where he had been, not where he was going.

He dropped his hands by his sides and stared at the floor.

_All gypsies can tell fortunes…_Was he truly a gypsy? His mother had been, but his father was an outsider, a convict. In terms of blood he could only be considered half a gypsy, but what about in terms of heritage? He forced his mind back to his earliest memories; so early he could not credit them with any sense of date or time. Just small, meaningless things; images of wagons, of the shining copper pans grandmama used to polish every day, of grandpapa moaning about how chamber pots were an abomination, of the way the camp was so fluid. Of the night when an old man died and his wagon was burned, of how grandmama always fussed and called him her 'little prince', of the campfire in the evenings. There was always a fire…

He lifted his head and looked back at the hearth. What was there about him that was gypsy save those few snippets of memory and a couple of words he no longer knew the meaning of? Apart from that the rest of his life had been dirt, backstreets, criminals, gaol, uniform and isolation. What was he now? He was a policeman; he always had been. For as long as he could remember he had been a policeman or a guard. He stayed put, lived in an apartment, moved when he was transferred and chose to seek solitude. No, he was not a gypsy; therefore he could not see the future.

He glanced back at the cards on the table. Just pretty pictures; nothing more. He made to replace them in the pack, but something stayed his hand. He settled back in his chair once more and let his eyes rest on the assorted pictures. In the light of the flames the Devil's upside-down grimace seemed to change into a leering smile. It laughed at him.

It was this image that lingered before his eyes as they became heavy with sleep and eventually slid shut.

The dream was a strange one. He was sitting by the fire as he had been before he had fallen asleep, and in the dream he was sleeping, and then woke. As he woke to his surprise he saw a gamin in tattered clothes standing a little way from him. A small boy – worrying small – and skinny; two wide dark eyes shining out from a dirty face beneath unruly strands of matted dark brown hair. The boy was looking at him with curiosity and his gaze unnerved Javert slightly. The boy then spoke.

"Hello, monsieur."

"Hello," Javert said back, surprised that he replied. He shook his head to get rid of the fug of sleep, then frowned at the boy. "How did you get in here? The door was locked!"

The boy shrugged. He didn't seem to be bothered by Javert's gruff tone.

"Don't know, I'm just here."

Javert found his answer both simple and puzzling. As he was thinking this over the boy sauntered across to the table, climbed onto a stool – the only other piece of furniture in the room – and looked at the cards Javert had laid out only a few hours ago. A slight frown creased his young forehead.

"That's bad," he said. He picked up the King of Swords. "Is this you, monsieur?"

Javert shrugged. This was turning into a _very_ strange dream.

"I don't know; it could be for all I know about cards."

"I know about cards," said the boy, putting the King back down again. "I know a lot of things."

Javert didn't know where this conversation was going. He didn't even know why he was speaking to this child; except for some reason he seemed to like his company, which was odd for a man whose only company he tended to favour was his own.

"What sort of things do you know, then?"

"All sorts of things," said the boy with some pride, jumping down off the stool, his wide eyes shining in the firelight. "I definitely know about cards. I know about hands too!"

Javert let a thin smile curl at his lips.

"Ah, so you tell fortunes then?"

"A bit," said the boy. He paused, then added on; "Not very well though; mama's better than me. She has cards like that, but she never lets me play with them."

Again, the boy looked at Javert, once more studying him curiously.

"Can you see the future, monsieur?"

At this a half-laugh escaped from Javert's throat, vaguely disguised as a sigh.

"No. No; can't say that I can."

"I tried to see the future," said the boy thoughtfully, turning his gaze down to look at the floor, drawing his big toe around idly on the boards to make some unseen shape. Javert's smile widened and he raised one thick eyebrow in amusement.

"Oh? And did you see the future?"

At this the boy looked up, his dark eyes twinkling under his mop of hair, a broad smile on his face that showed all his teeth.

"I saw _you_, monsieur."

In a split second all look of amusement was gone from Javert's face. The boy continued to grin. He took off his grubby cap, gave a small theatrical bow… and he disappeared.


End file.
